


Something Beautiful By Incantation

by treefrogie84



Series: Spooktober 2019 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, established Castiel/Crowley, psychic Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 07:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: Dean is only visiting the psychic because Sam insists. Because Sam's a romantic who can't see what's perfectly clear to everyone else: Dean's soulmate rejected him, sight unseen, decades ago, and even if they hadn't, Dean's not worth their time anyway.But Sam insists, so Dean shows up at the last psychic west of the Mississippi, hoping that Crowley will at least tell him that his soulmate is happy, where ever they are.





	Something Beautiful By Incantation

**Author's Note:**

> spooktober prompt: Fortune Telling/ Tarot
> 
> I might come back to this at some point, as figuring out the rules for this verse was pretty fun.

He looks both ways before slipping into the narrow entrance of the alley, all but hidden behind the large trash bins. The neon signs on either side-- a clothing consignment shop on one side and a hookah bar on the other-- pull the eye right past the break in the buildings, especially on a chilly night. It stinks too, of rotting fruit and something worse, something sour.

Dean doesn’t mind. He’s spent so much of his life in the back alleys of cities, what’s one more?

Hunching into his too light jacket, he glances at the instructions scribbled in smeared ballpoint on his hand and knocks, long-short-long-short, before stepping back. An unlit ‘palm reader’ sign is barely visible in the dark alley, lit only by light creeping from behind the closed curtains and a door light a few yards down the way.

The lock flips open and the door opens a few inches, enough for a man-- an inch or two shorter than Dean, about his age-- to peer out above the chain that’s still in place. “Who are you?” he growls, his voice rougher, somehow, than Dean expected, like he just washed a pack of cigarettes down with a glass of whiskey.

“Uh, Dean. I set up--”

“Yes.” The door closes, just long enough for the chain to be undone before it opens the rest of the way. “You’ll have to wait. He’s with another client.” The man gestures towards a single metal folding chair set against the wall. He watches until Dean sits down, gingerly, before turning his back and heading towards the back.

Testing the chair, he glances around. The place isn’t, precisely, how he’d imagined it, not that he’d put much thought into it beyond what he’s seen in movies. The walls aren’t covered in fabric, there’s no chintzy doilies, tea sets or ouija boards scattered around… Instead, two curio cabinets stand against the far wall, glass doors protecting the knick-knacks inside. The place reeks of old tobacco and incense, like maybe there’s a reason the door man sounds like he smokes a carton a day.

He wants to get up and investigate the curio cabinets-- there’s at least two skulls that he can see, and something that might be an articulated bat wing-- but doesn’t dare. Leaning back, the chair lets out an ominous squeak just before the door dude shows back up.

He passes Dean a delicate glass and silver cup filled with something dark. “Tea,” he explains, leaning against one of the cabinets with his own mug. “There’s milk if you’d like it.”

Dean sniffs it before tasting it carefully. It’s, uh…

A woman hurries into the room, drops an envelope on a small table by the hallway and hurries out the door.

“Darling, tea? Really?” A shorter man, black suit and a beard, follows the woman out. “What did he do to deserve that?”

Dean tries another sip and tries to disguise his wince. “No, it’s good.”

“It’s terrible. He doesn’t even like it, he just likes to screw with easy marks.”

“Is that what I am?” Dean asks, standing and setting his cup down. “An easy mark?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “Might as well bring that with you, it’s even worse cold.”

“You love it, Crowley,” Door man rasps. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Pish,” Crowley waves his hand. “Dean here should be our last client of the night, love.”

Dean follows him down the short hallway to the back room. Heavy wooden furniture lines the walls-- more curio cabinets, a sideboard, an old roll top desk-- all immaculately clean. Crowley nods towards the table in the center of the room. “Have a seat.” He watches Dean, sizing him up, before nodding and turning towards the bookcase behind him. “I suspect you’re after something a bit more… robust than tea leaves or palm reading. Cards or stones? Assuming you know the difference.”

Dean gulps down more of the tea and shudders. “Stones. Cards are… weird.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and pulls two boxes off the shelf. “I’ll see what the cards say for myself, thank you. I never trust someone else’s interpretation.”

“It’s not--” Dean sighs, wrapping his hands around his cup. Even if the tea is crap, the warmth feels good as it soaks into his palms. “You’ll see what I mean.”

Crowley hmms, setting the boxes to the side before glancing at Dean again and reaching for a cloth to cover the table. Flipping out the deerskin, he nods slightly before opening one of the boxes and pulling out a velvet bag.

“So you do do some things the usual way,” Dean says nervously. “I was starting to wonder.”

“Hush.” It doesn’t take very long for Crowley to finish setting up, doing whatever his normal pregame ritual is, shifting the bag of stones from one hand to the other. “Alright. You were asking about your soulmate, right? The usual bullshit about if you’ll be happy, where she is?”

“Something like that,” Dean spits out, pushing up his sleeve. He doesn’t look down, all too accustomed to the scarred disaster of his forearm. The twists of scar tissue are well healed, a paler, raised stretch of skin wrapping around most of his arm, and doesn’t impact his daily life much anymore but--

“Divination isn’t going to help you with that,” Crowley says, his voice sounding… odd. “You’re not the first to have lost their soulmark in an accident.”

“And never mind.” Dean clenches his teeth and nods, yanking his shirt sleeve back down as he stands. “Thanks for nothing.” Reaching into his pocket, he tugs the envelope of cash free and drops it on the side table by the door.

“Thank you for the tea,” he calls tightly to the other man, he never did get his name, who’s dusting the cabinets as he passes through the waiting room.

He storms into the night, barely noticing the heavy drizzle that’s started, rushing back to his car and the oblivion he can find in a bottle.

It’ll be loud not-oblivion tonight, he can already tell, but that’s the price he pays for _trying_. For pretending that, even in this, he could find something worthwhile.

He doesn’t care if he ever finds his soulmate, really. What little of his mark that can be seen amid the scar tissue is fading, has been for years now, a sure sign that his soulmate already decided they want nothing to do with him, but he’d hoped-- his gut clenches around what he ‘hoped.’ They’re better off without him anyway, stupid and near useless as he is.

* * *

Cas picks up the envelope, weighs it thoughtfully in his hand, and walks back to Crowley’s work room. Crowley is still sitting at the table, caught in some internal puzzle while he pokes listlessly at the handful of rune stones on the cloth in front of him.

“Did he leave?”

“Yes,” Cas says quietly. “You chased him off quickly.”

Crowley blinks, grins broadly-- if slightly empty-- up at Cas. “Yes, well. He wanted the usual soulmate spiel and didn’t take it well when I refused.”

“I’m sure that’s what happened.” Cas raises an eyebrow, setting the envelope on the table. “Nearly a grand in there, if I’m any judge, for the only true witch this side of the Mississippi. Lot of money to give up.”

“Don’t start, love. What he was wanting--”

Cas preens for a moment under the endearment, before wrapping his arms around Crowley. “It is, as always, your prerogative for who you’ll read for. But I wish you’d tell me why he felt compelled to pay when you refused.”

Crowley shrugs, tossing a handful of stones onto the leather. “I’m unsure of his question. However, the answer…” he gestures for Cas to read over his shoulder. “Not that it should be influencing the reading at this point.”

Cas sighs, eyes jumping from stone to stone, cataloging them all and assembling the reading. “Oh.” He prods one stone with a finger, fitting it in with the others. “He’s lost. And given up.”

“I don’t know if he was ever found.” Crowley shakes his head. “Close up without me. This one is going to be a problem until I get his sand out of the works.”

Cas winces, resting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and squeezing. “I’ve got some more work to do on my side of things anyway. The lights are off and I’ll lock up in a moment.”

Crowley’s already gone though, in a deep trance trying to cleanse away whatever the client had brought with him.

Pouring a healthy slug of vodka into his refreshed tea, Cas sits down at his desk in the side room, updating inventory for the online store and trying to get the young-- ha, he’s their age at least, possibly a year or two younger, but not much more, and they’re both firmly on the older side of middle age-- man out of his mind.

He’s not sure why he’d been compelled to offer Dean a cup of tea, probably the same reason Crowley had been compelled to read for him even after he left. Something about him just… calls for someone to take care of him.

Settling down, he goes back to work, leaving notes for himself for the next time he’s doing the ordering. Crowley is still working when Cas turns off the samovar and goes upstairs to bed, the dim lamp spilling down the short hallway.

* * *

Dean avoids looking in the mirror the next morning while he showers and gets dressed. He always does, but today gets a particularly focused attempt to look at nothing. Motels have too many mirrors for it to work completely, but he can ignore the occasional flash of bare skin while he pulls on his clothes.

He can tell Sammy he tried everything, again, and carry on. That was their deal, after all.

Baby’s seats welcome him home, cradling him while he struggles to put a lid on his emotions. He’s not even sure why he’s so… whatever. Sam’s wishful thinking is the only reason this trip happened, hopeful enough that Dean allowed himself to be infected.

But Crowley was a dick, didn’t give a shit about what or why he was visiting some fortune teller, just wanted his money.

His phone rings before he even gets to the gas station to fill up before heading out.

“What?” he barks.

“How’d it go?” Sam asks cheerfully, either ignoring Dean’s tone or bulldozing over it. “Was he able to--”

“He was a dick.” Dean snorts. “And I’m done. Let it fade, to hell with whoever is on the other side.”

“Dean--”

Dean ends the call, tossing his phone over his shoulder into the backseat. Sam can take his cheerful optimism and shove it up his ass. Always certain that if Dean just talks to the right psychic, matchmaker, relationship counselor, therapist, website, he’ll find someone who’s soulmark puzzles together with his and they’ll be happy forever.

His phone buzzes in the backseat briefly before falling silent again. Swallowing roughly, Dean pushes the irritation and broken hope down, where he can ignore them. He doesn’t--

Flipping the port open, he starts the gas pump before heading inside for a cup of coffee and something he can call breakfast. He’s not hungry, but he can’t do long drives on an empty stomach anymore either. The acid of shitty, burnt, gas station coffee will fuck him up for days.

The guy next to him at the carafes of coffee looks at him funny but doesn’t say anything until Dean gets thoroughly creeped and starts to back away. “It’s you.”

“Sure, buddy. It’s me.” Dean rolls his eyes, abandoning his half-filled coffee. Looks like his breakfast options are cheap snack cakes or candy bars. Or a bag of jerky. Any of which is almost worse than nothing at all, but whatever.

“You came to see Crowley last night.”

Dean turns around to look at the guy again. “What’s it to you?” he asks gruffly. “You gonna tell me he’s a fraud or whatever?”

“He really isn’t,” the man insists quietly. “Probably the only true psychic around.”

“So what do you want?”

“To know why he never came to bed last night. Which means dragging you back to see him.”

Dean squints before picking his half-filled coffee back up. “Door dude?”

“Cas.” He sticks his hand out to shake. “My apologies. I should have introduced myself last night.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes and shakes the guy’s hand. “Dean.”

“I’m aware.” Cas nods at Dean’s coffee cup. “If you’re ready, we should go. I’m sure your car has sufficient gas by now.”

Probably, but he’s not sure he’s comfortable with this dude knowing that. “Crowley made it pretty clear what he thought last night. I’m sure he wants nothing to do with me.”

“But you paid him anyway. With a bonus even.”

“I know what a good reading is worth,” Dean says defensively. “And I know what how grating I am to some people. Especially psychics. Easier to just… give up the money than subject you to my presence.”

Cas looks at him funny-- that’s dislike or whatever on his face, not pity, Dean’s sure-- before snapping a lid on Dean’s coffee, picking it up, and taking it to the register. Sliding the cashier some cash, he marches out. “That’s my--” Dean breaks off before sighing. “Gas was paid at the pump. We good?” he asks the cashier helplessly.

“Yeah, man. We’re good. Just close out your pump. And, dude?” The cashier waits for Dean to look up. “Cas is a pretty chill guy. He’s in here all the time.”

Dean nods before running a hand through his hair. “Great.”

Cas already has the nozzle put away, and is bent over, fiddling with the gas cap. Dean watches, trying not to be a creep about the dude’s ass-- he’s single, probably by celestial design, not dead-- before Cas stands back up and slides into the passenger seat, balancing both coffees on his knees.

“What about your car?”

“I walked. It’s better for the planet.”

“Dude, we’re miles--”

“About two.” He shrugs, hunching further into the ugly trench coat hanging from his shoulders. “Not that far, in the grand scheme of things. You took longer than I was expecting to show up.”

“I… wasn’t aware I had an appointment.” Dean shrugs.

Cas falls silent beyond directing Dean back to the shop. Parking is much easier in the mornings, and he’s able to snag a spot across the street from the alley. Following Cas back to the shop, Dean finds himself tugging on his sleeves, making sure everything that should be covered, is.

He doesn’t want to advertise to the world, again, just how fucked up he is. Crowley’s seen it all once, he doesn’t need to see the scars and mostly faded soulmark again. And Cas never needs to see it. He can keep at least that much dignity.

The door opens under Cas’s touch. “Feathers, please tell me you brought coffee. I love a cuppa as much as-- Oh.” Crowley breaks off. “It’s you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know Cas--” Dean swallows hastily, reaching for one of the cardboard cups and inching towards the door. “Awesome. You didn’t want to see me again. Sorry.”

Crowley frowns, but Dean doesn’t wait. He waves half-heartedly at Cas and wrenches the door open again to disappear into the alley.

He leans against Baby while he drinks his coffee, too stupid with exhaustion to climb back behind the wheel just yet. Taking a deep breath, he tries, again, to push everything down and away. He really should be used to this by now, it’s been twenty-some odd years since--

Since.

Tossing the cup into a nearby dumpster, Dean blows out a breath and reaches for his phone in the back seat. Sam hasn’t called back, probably too busy with his life, and… well, it doesn’t actually matter much.

“Oi! Zoolander!” Crowley yells down the alley, marching towards him angrily.

“I’m leaving, okay?” Dean scrubs his hand across his face, hoping distance will buy him some plausible deniability. “You don’t want-- I’m leaving.”

“What does weird mean?”

“What?”

“You said cards reacted weird. What does that mean?”

“Why do you care?” Dean spits. “I gave you the money last night, I don’t have anymore.” Not for this anyway. Probably has enough for gas to get him hours away from here, and a few nights of sleeping in Baby won’t be the worst thing he’s ever done. Hell, he probably shouldn’t have gotten a room last night. Should have just started driving and not stopped.

There’s cliffs somewhere, he’s pretty sure, where he can stop.

Crowley wavers under Dean’s glare. “I don’t. Care. But I _am _curious.” He pulls a pack of tarot cards from his jacket pocket, cardstock box held together with duct tape and a rubber band, tossing it onto Baby’s trunk like a gauntlet. “So. Show me.”

Sighing, Dean pulls off his jacket, pushing up the sleeves of his henley enough to make it clear that nothing is hiding up his sleeves. Spreading the cards across the trunk, he pulls three from the fan.

Except when he lays them down, face up like he was taught, it’s nine cards: the tower, twice; the eight of swords… “Death and destruction, in thrice three. Every time.”

“How did you--”

“Like I said. Weird.” Dean steps back, far enough for Crowley to pick up the cards. “Used deck, new deck, I shuffle, you shuffle, someone not even in the room shuffled, I draw, you draw. It doesn’t matter.” He fakes a laugh, pulling his sleeves down and reaching for his jacket. “So yeah. I was asking about my soulmate. I’m never gonna find them, but as long as they’re happy--”

“Never gonna find-- Are you mad?”

“Crowley… my mark started fading the day it came in. The scarring, it’s bad enough I never even got the general shape of the thing. I don’t blame them, whoever they are, for wanting nothing to do with me. I’m poison.”

Crowley frowns, staring at him before turning to glance back at the shop. Cas stands just outside the door, watching them. “Right. Well, are you coming? You might as well get the reading you paid for.”

A frisson of something like joy passes through Dean’s chest before he ruthlessly squashes it. A reading is not hope, is nothing but another false step on his path towards a lonely death.

* * *

Zoolander hovers near the door, ready to run. Crowley doesn’t bother with the showmanship-- no one here will appreciate it, and it’s exhausting besides-- just takes his normal seat with a cardboard cup of coffee sitting at his left hand.

Cas comes in a few seconds later, pushing the squirrel ahead of him and holding a cup of tea. Leaning over, he carefully kisses Crowley’s cheek. “Want me to stay?” he murmurs into Crowley’s ear.

“Yes, darling. Please.”

Squirrel is about ready to bolt, here only because Cas wouldn’t let him go. The demonstration of the card’s ‘weird’ out by the car was concerning, but fit with everything else Crowley had been able to discover.

“Jacket off, sleeve up,” Crowley orders brusquely. “I’ll need to touch your soulmark, or whatever remains.”

Silently, with bleak eyes, Dean complies after a quick glance around the room, looking for… something. “Here.”

Crowley prides himself on being a cold bastard, with little to no care for other people’s feelings or opinions. It makes him a shit counselor, unwilling to couch bad news in soft terms as he is, but he’s not in the business of consoling housewives.

Even still, his breath catches when he fully sees the devastation of Dean’s arm. It starts small, faded circles only a bit bigger than a pinhead at his wrist, but then a double line of craters and rough skin twisting up his arm. The injury is years old, doesn’t even look fresh, but something--

“Barb wire. When I was a kid. I was chasing my idiot brother and.” Dean shrugs. “So it goes.”

“So it goes,” Cas echoes.

“And your mark?” Crowley asks impatiently.

Dean silently points towards a couple of spots, places Crowley thought were faded grease or oil stains, or where the skin had tanned differently than the scar tissue. “It’s mostly faded. I don’t think you’ll be able to get much of anything, but…” he trails off again, looking away from Crowley and Cas. “Forty next week, ya know? I’m giving up after this, they’ve never wanted me, and I don’t--”

“You’re not poison, Dean,” Crowley surprises himself by saying. “Your heart has so much good in it that’s it’s disgusting.” Bracing himself, he reaches over to touch Dean’s soulmark, fully prepared to be sucked inside.

Three lobes to the mark, two of whom found each other and never had any idea they were missing someone.

He can feel something like an echo of their hearts, marks fitting together like the puzzle pieces that they are, love and life and everything else tying them together for years. They found each other young too-- decades of…

Cas lays his hand on Crowley’s arm, dragging him out of Squirrel’s mark and back to brick and mortar reality. “Love?”

Barely aware of what he’s doing, Crowley pulls Cas’s arm over next to Dean’s, trying to visualize his own soulmark and how it fits with Cas’s. They’ll never know for sure, not with the scarring but…

Dean jerks his arm out of Crowley’s hold, pulling his sleeve down to hide what’s left of his soulmark. “No,” he snarls. “Like no one’s tried that before. Convince the poor rube that he’s part of a triad, or a quad, or whatever! String him along with promises you have no intention of keeping, just to bilk out the last of his money.” Standing jerkily, he yanks his jacket on, heading for the door.

“Dean, sit down,” Cas orders. “You’re turning forty next week, so you got your mark when you were fifteen or so. And it started fading immediately, because they’re dumb magical tattoos that can’t even be bothered to tell you that the smarmy jackass, leader of all the other jackasses, wasn’t your only soulmate.”

“It’s not like I was expecting it to be you either, Halo,” Crowley mumbles. “Really. Let alone to realize that there was someone we were missing.”

“It’s a nice fantasy, I’ll give you that. Right out of a Hallmark movie.” Dean shakes his head. “I stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago.”

“I can show you,” Crowley says desperately, suddenly certain that if Squirrel leaves here, now, they’ll never see him again. He meets Cas’s eyes across the table and squeezes his hand. “You wouldn’t have shown up here if you didn’t think I was legit.”

Dean’s knuckles go white where he’s holding the back of a chair. “So show me then,” he says bitterly. “Do whatever you want with me.”

That right there, that Dean’s willing to listen regardless of whatever his hurt is saying, is proof enough for most people, but Crowley gets to work anyway. This really isn’t his forte, mental landscapes are exhausting to hold, but he can do it. “Take my hand.”

Dean’s hand is calloused and dry as it slips to Crowley’s, echoed a few seconds later when he takes Cas’s hand.

“Ready?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean bites out, settling back into his chair. “But you won’t let me leave until you’re satisfied, so whatever.”

Crowley completes the circle, grabbing Cas’s hand and dragging both of them into a dreamscape. It’s easier with Cas involved, he only has to support the link instead of the whole thing.

Dreamscapes are weird anyway, so the brief glimpses he gets-- high school bullying and abuse, neglect and love in equal measure-- could come from any of the three of them. They’ve put a lot of effort into healing, but Dean’s bound to stumble into some of those--

Dean’s panic flares and he kicks himself out of the dreamscape, dropping Cas and Crowley’s hands like he’s been burned.

Opening his eyes, Crowley watches Dean stumble away from the table before stopping, his shoulders and head slumping.

“Dean?” Cas approaches slowly, tossing Crowley a panicked look and resting a careful hand on Dean’s back.

Crowley shrugs, but hurries to bracket Dean. “Are you--”

* * *

It’s good, or at least close enough that he can lie to himself. His soulmates are happy, and it’s not that they didn’t want him, they just… didn’t know he existed.

Abruptly, his stomach rebels, bile filling his mouth. Swallowing hurriedly, he winces and shakes off concerned hands that don’t actually give a shit about him. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair now. You told me what I wanted to know, I guess.” Taking a deep breath, he nods. “They’re happy, after all.”

He needs to get out of here, needs to get someplace quiet so he can get himself under control, get everything--

Dry, chapped lips press against his, shocking him out of his panic and despair, before turning him towards another face.

Crowley is more assertive, pulling Dean closer and wrapping a hand around his hip. “This okay, Squirrel?” he pauses long enough to ask, barely waiting for Dean’s shaky nod before diving back in

And then he’s kissing Cas again and between the two of them, it’s something Dean never realized he was missing.

“Proof enough?” Crowley asks roughly, his hand skimming down Dean’s arm to grab his hand. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

“_We_ wouldn’t,” Cas corrects him. “It’ll take some adjusting, but we’re not unwilling.”

“What does that even mean,” Dean asks. “Adjusting. It’s…”

“It’s big and scary and needs all three of us be adults about things. But that means patience from you too-- sometimes it takes a bit to get back to a new equilibrium.”

Closing his eyes, Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to relax into their loose embrace. He can do this, can love them with the same fervent support they’ve shown him or… “Okay. Awesome. Yeah.”


End file.
